Canary (13 page)

“I wish we were both in Morocco now,” Clarisse said. “Better yet, I think you ought to stay here and worry and fret and let me go off for a relaxing week or so in an exotic foreign country.”

The house lights came on at two A.M., and at two-fifteen the last of the customers wandered out. The three plainclothesmen lingered on the sidewalk beneath the street lamp, but no offers were made to them, and eventually—with surreptitious nods to one another—they wandered off.

Sean snatched up empty bottles and glasses from around the room while Valentine cashed out the register. Clarisse had already gone up to bed. Felix and George, the two bar runners, began the preliminary cleanup, a job they'd finish in the morning at ten.

At three A.M., Valentine closed the door on Sean, Felix, and George and snapped off the barroom lights. In the darkness, he climbed the spiral stairs to his office.

At his desk, he opened a small stack of bills and mail that he hadn't had time to tend to that day. He pulled out the checkbook and started to write out checks but found he lacked concentration for even this simple task. He opened and read a long letter he'd received from a friend in San Francisco but lost interest in that, as well. For a long moment Valentine sat in his desk chair, facing the two-way glass. He stared blankly into the darkened barroom below, glanced at the clock, and then pushed himself out of the chair. With a noisy yawn, he snapped out the light and left the office, yawning once again as he went up the stairs to the floor above. He unlocked the door to his apartment and went inside.

Valentine hesitated before flipping the lock of the apartment door. A light from his bedroom made a rectangle across the living-room carpet. He tried to remember if he'd turned off all the lights in the place before he went downstairs to work for the evening. He stood very still and listened. His brow creased in question as he became aware of soft music from inside the bedroom—jazz, just the sort of music he liked least. Valentine knew he had not left the radio playing, and certainly not to that station. Cautiously, he stepped up to the door and peered through the crack.

Valentine froze when he saw the silhouetted shadow of a human form rise up against the bedroom wall.

“What took so long?” a masculine voice inquired casually.

The shadow receded across the wall as Valentine went into the bedroom. Bander was completing a lazy stretch and settling back into the pillows propped against the headboard of the bed. He wore only a pair of low-rise navy-blue briefs. His tanned body was dark against the rust-and-cream striped sheets. His Boston Gas overalls were draped over the ladder-back chair before one of the front windows, shoes underneath the chair. On the nightstand a lighted cigarette rested within easy reach on the lip of a saucer. The shade of the lamp on the stand had been tilted away from the bed, diffusing the already low light and casting Bander in evocative shadow. He looked as if he'd taken some care to arrange himself to maximal erotic effect, legs slightly parted, one arm up behind his head.

He picked the cigarette out of the saucer and took a drag on it. “I asked what took you so long,” Bander repeated. Smoke spiraled up from his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Valentine demanded as he came into the room. Although he did not raise his voice, his anger was clear.

Bander tapped ash into the saucer. “Couldn't find an ashtray anywhere. I thought you were a smoker.”

“I asked you a question,” Valentine said coldly.

Bander rubbed a hand across his chest, fingers deliberately caressing the curve of one pectoral before grazing down his muscle-plated stomach and coming to rest on his crotch. He sat up slightly and stabbed out his cigarette in the center of the saucer. “You gave me your keys, remember?” He nodded toward the oak bureau next to the door, then fell back against the pillows. “Somebody told me your bedroom had a perfect view into the locker room of the police station across the street. I watched for a long time, but there wasn't anything worth seeing. When's the change in shift?”

“I don't give a damn about the view. I know
how
you got up here. I want to know
why
you're here!”

“I fixed your pilot light,” replied Bander easily. “It had gone out.”

“You didn't get any repair call to come here, did you?”

Bander only grinned.

“What's to keep me from calling up Boston Gas and reporting you?”

Unruffled, Bander shrugged. “I wrote up a report call before I left. When I got up here, I called to verify I was working. On the books, I went off duty at two A.M. If there's some problem, I'll just say you invited me to stay.”

Shaking his head, Valentine folded his arms and leaned against the bureau. “You used to have the morals of a rabid dog. I see they've degenerated.”

“Well, I
am
here, so why don't we just deal with that?” His voice was warm now, friendly. “Listen, I know what bartenders are like at three A.M. The customers have cut out, but their adrenaline's up, and they're ready to play.”

“I'm not.”

Bander ignored this. His hand was still on the crotch of his dark blue underpants. “When I saw you over at Sean's this afternoon, I started thinking how hot you used to be.”

“Really? Is that why you were so damned pleasant over there?”

“You were with what's-her-name,” Bander said dismissively.

“Her name is Clarisse,” Valentine said shortly.

Bander raised his eyes. They were dilated and moist. “Hey, I didn't lay myself out here to talk about some woman.”

Valentine took Bander's uniform off the back of the chair and shook the wrinkles out of it. He then folded it twice over his arm, stepped across the room, and flung it out the open window.

Bander shot up in bed. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Valentine said. “My hand slipped.” He grabbed Bander's work boots from beneath the chair and tossed them out the window, as well. Valentine smiled as he heard the boots hit the sidewalk two floors below.

“You jerk!” Bander spat as he sprang from the bed. “I don't believe this!” He gripped the sill and thrust himself halfway out the window. “I don't
believe
you—” He stopped and barked loudly, “Get away from those things!”

Valentine stepped over to the other window and leaned out. On the sidewalk below, one of the derelicts from the playground was eagerly gathering up the discarded overalls and shoes.

Bander's face reddened. Veins strained in his neck. “Goddamn you!” he shouted.

The derelict scurried back across the sidewalk and into the dark safety of the playground.

Bander and Valentine pulled back inside the apartment. Bander's fists clasped and unclasped with rage, his mouth was set tightly, his eyes were glazed with anger. He thrust himself forward, his hands clawing for Valentine's neck.

The man's rage made him clumsy. Valentine easily seized Bander's right arm and flipped him about. Saliva sprayed from between Bander's clenched teeth, and he yelped as his captured arm was jerked painfully upward. Valentine shoved him stumbling out of the bedroom and across the darkened living room. He deftly got the apartment door unlocked and flung it wide. He slapped one palm against the wall switch, and pools of light illuminated the stairs all the way down to the street entrance. Valentine, his free hand on the railing, got the two of them down the steps without falling. He unlatched and raked wide the street door in one forceful motion. Valentine released Bander's arm and pushed the nearly naked man out across the sidewalk.

“Run and you can make it home before dawn,” Valentine offered. “Anyone sees you, they'll just think you're an exhibitionistic jogger.”

“You lousy scum,” Bander growled, “I'll fuckin' make you pay for this.”

Valentine slammed shut the street door.

Back in his apartment, Valentine got undressed and took a quick shower before climbing into bed. As he reached to snap out the nightstand light, he noticed that his closet was ajar. Hanging from the inside doorknob were at least a half-dozen neckties. Valentine sat up and stared at the ties. He rarely wore them. He'd given to charity all but a half dozen. Those were always kept neatly folded on one side of his top bureau drawer—not on the doorknob of the closet.

“M
Y GOD,” VALENTINE
said with mock astonishment, “I was expecting Medusa's daughter, and I get Little Mary Sunshine.”

Clarisse, carrying her telephone with her as she answered her apartment door and with the receiver tucked securely between her left ear and shoulder, motioned him to silence.

It was eight forty-five on Sunday morning, and Valentine had shown up at her threshold with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a string-tied box of muffins.

Clarisse took the round glass pot from him. Valentine kicked the door shut behind them and followed her across the room to a table by an open back window. He placed the box next to the electric warmer on which Clarisse placed the pot. The table was already set for two, complete with a slender vase of fresh-cut orange-and-yellow tiger lilies. Valentine gave her a puzzled look, which she ignored, and then sat down.

“Fascinating,” Clarisse muttered into the receiver. “I never knew…” She covered the mouthpiece briefly enough to whisper, “Be off in a second, Val.”

Silently, Valentine mouthed the question, Who is it?

Clarisse again briefly covered the mouthpiece. “Paul Harvey,” she replied. “Would you like your buns warmed?”

“
The
Paul Harvey?” Valentine said aloud. “The news commentator Paul Harvey?”

“Shh!” Clarisse snapped, and then added a nod to his question. “Amazing,” she said into the receiver.

Valentine watched her with growing curiosity. Clarisse opened the refrigerator and retrieved a tub of soft butter from a lower shelf. She transferred a generous amount to a small plate and carried it to the table. She seated herself opposite Valentine and undid the string about the box of pastries and tossed it into the trash can between the stove and the refrigerator. “
Un
believable,” she said with a soft click of her tongue as she rested her elbows on the table. A balmy morning breeze gently rustled the long, curved petals of the tiger lilies and pushed at Clarisse's hair. As she listened, she gazed out the window at Tremont Street a block away. Her Lucille Ball puff of the previous night was gone and her hair repaged. She wore a loose-fitting melon-colored blouse, jeans, and sandals. The palest hint of rose rouge tinted her cheeks. She turned suddenly away from the window.

“Fine,” she said briskly. “Good day to you, too, Paul.”

Clarisse hung up and flipped open the box of muffins.

“Why in the world would Paul Harvey call
you
?” Valentine asked suspiciously.

“He was telling me everything there was to know about German cockroaches,” she confided. She tilted the box in Valentine's direction. “Which would you like? Orange, cranberry, walnut, or blueberry?”

Valentine selected the blueberry and put it on his plate. Clarisse filled their mugs with coffee. “I never knew cockroaches—
German
cockroaches,” she amended, “could be so interesting. They're a growing problem in this country, you know. Paul tells me they could become a plague if something isn't done about them.”

Valentine put his knife and muffin down. He looked about the kitchen with widened eyes. “Have I just stumbled into the Twilight Zone?”

Clarisse edged the telephone over in front of him. “Answer it,” she directed.

“It didn't ring. Are you on drugs? Is that why you look so fresh this morning?”

“Just answer it.”

Reluctantly, Valentine lifted the receiver and put it to his ear. He listened a moment and then covered the mouthpiece with his palm and said to Clarisse, “It's Sister Rozinnia. She says the Virgin Mary is going to appear next Friday evening at the Medford Twin Drive-In with an important message for mankind.”

“That's certainly going to make it an interesting evening for all those teenagers showing up to see
Roller Zombies
and
Sorority Girls in the House of Pain
.” Clarisse turned the point of her knife toward him. “You don't have to cover the receiver. No one can hear you.”

“What's going on, anyway?” he asked, hanging up the telephone.

“I've been getting radio stations on that thing for nearly an hour. I was about to call you when I got Paul Harvey instead, talking about roaches.” She shrugged. “I wouldn't mind so much if it were FM at least…”

Valentine pulled his muffin apart and generously spread one side with butter. “You know, I thought I'd find you still in your bathrobe, nerves and hair frazzled, stumbling bleary-eyed from wall to wall. Instead, you look as bright as these tiger lilies.”

“Which, by the way, I bought this morning at the Greek market down the street.”